Lucid Accounts
by Aicosu
Summary: It didn't matter where the dreams were coming from. And it didn't matter who the stranger was. What mattered was, she wasn't screaming out of her sleep anymore. (A story of Emily and her encounters with the Outsider.) Eventual slight emily/outsider.


_AN: I have been meaning to post this for awhile but have been at odds with it. I'm unsure of whether or not I like the idea... so I'm putting out some of what I wrote to see if anyone would be interesting in hearing more. _

_This is a connected story to Diplomatic Gestures. But it still stands alone, you do not have to read Diplomatic Gestures at all in order to follow it. That being said, if you haven't read it - My Corvo is a mute who speaks in sign language. He has since he was a child. _

_This story is based on something in between high and low chaos endings of the game. Enjoy! And excuse my terrible typos, I'm a horrid self editor and I did bother my beta reader to edit this little snippet of a story._

Inspired by Son Lux's 'Flowers' & 'Claws'

* * *

She didn't remember her mother ever looking at her like that.

Emily frowned at the thought.

Even when she had gotten into very big trouble, her mother had never looked so…

So…?

She never really yelled at her or glared at her, anyway. She would just say her name with that cross and confused tone. Like she was baffled her daughter would act in such a way. Or just disappointed.

But _this_ look…

She moved, reaching her hand out to touch the black paint on the cracked cement wall, as if it were still fresh. She looked at her fingers, expecting to see dark sticky marks on them. There wasn't.

Emily had seen the picture a million times before. But seeing wasn't really looking. Not really.

It was on all the silver coins and paper notes. And the seals she found in the archives (the one time she had snuck into them.) It was the official portrait for her or so she guessed. It had her mother looking straight out at you instead of to the side, like some others she'd seen in history books. As if her mother had turned and looked at the last moment.

It wasn't a new picture.

Her mother's face had just been a part of her life that way. She was the Empress after all.

She _had been_ Empress.

Or was it, she _once was_ Empress?

Her governess would probably click her mouth at her forgetful grammar.

She pushed the thoughts away and focused on the black painted picture of her mother on the crumbling wall of some craggy old building. The sun was like a spotlight on the image, pouring over the roof of the Hound Pitts before sunset.

Her mother was all golden and black in front of her (_and red, her mind whispered_). Those dark eyes staring back at her with a look she had never actually seen before.

She wondered if the person who did it had done it by hand, or with one of those paper cut out's she had once seen Mr. Sokolov use.

The words beside the picture were probably done by hand. They looked more like her wax crayons than the painted picture did.

'**Long Live The Empress!"**

A woman at the Cat had whispered that too her too. When the Madame had forced her to wash her 'filthy' face, after she had screamed and cried it red. The woman had helped her; gotten her a towel not so stained, and then combed back her hair.

"Long live the Empress." She had whispered.

But the Empress was dead. And she wasn't sure what those words meant when they weren't possible.

She glared back at the portrait of her mother in frustration.

She looked so…

Her mother didn't look angry. And she didn't look scared.

She looked like she wasn't saying something.

Like she had a secret.

Somewhere inside her head, Emily knew that if only she were older, she would understand what that look meant.

For now, she could only stare and compare the picture to the memories she had of her mother. But her memories were soft, full of smiles and stern but gentle teachings.

And surprised screaming, and that dull look in her eyes when that man shoved his sword into—

If she crossed her eyes a little and let everything go blurry, she could imagine the paint lines running down the cement, like black water.

She could imagine them twisting up and painting pictures without a brush, black ink swirling into waves and spirals, up around her mother's face. Or maybe little cities, with clouds and rivers and boats.

She turned her head, looking down the blank wall and watching the black ink spread out under her direction, making little pictures of birds in flocks, flying over black fields of flowers.

Her mother always told her she had a wild imagination.

_Had _always told her.

A shadow formed in the flocks of her birds and she pictured them scattering, rats now, back into the black form that was the Empress.

She didn't have to look to know whose shadow it was. And she didn't have to see any stains on his boots to know where he had been.

She didn't say anything. She knew why he came looking for her. And she knew he didn't have to say anything either in order for her to learn her lesson.

So instead they both stared at Jessamine Kaldwin's face, looking back at them.

"Did she ever look at you like that?" She asked, feeling a little silly for asking the strange question, but not regretting it.

Corvo didn't say anything.

_Corvo never said anything. _ Her mind teased, but this time, it wasn't funny.

His hands rose, and she watched the shadows of the symbols he made instead of his actual hands.

'_A few times.'_

It wasn't an answer to her question of what that look meant. And Emily didn't think she could ask. She just appreciated his honest answer.

Not Corvo anyway. She couldn't ever ask Corvo.

His shadow moved again, quicker this time and she had to turn to be sure to catch his fingers.

'_You are too far from your Tower.'_

"Yes, but it's not _my_ Tower." She argued. Hating the word he used. This stupid place was nothing like home. Nothing like her own room. The Hound Pitts was dirty and loud, with the stupid siren screaming in the morning and the man on the speaker telling everyone to stay indoors.

The Tower had been clean and quiet, with servants talking casually when they didn't know she was hiding around the corner. It was nothing like listening to her mother dictating a bill while she colored pictures on the massive oak desk in the office.

Corvo's face darkened, his head lowering as his brows slowly worried together.

It was more like the expressions her mother gave her when she was angry than the poster.

Disappointment.

Emily imagined a heavy stone dropping inside her, making her body unbalanced and splashing water in her stomach to tickle her throat at that look. And she immediately wished she hadn't been so… childish.

"I just wanted to… explore." She tried, looking at the bottom of his coat. It was torn and muddy. "I don't like the people here."

His hands rose and she worked her mouth to move faster than his fingers.

"They aren't mean to me."

His hands dropped.

"I just…"

She looked away.

She looked at her mother.

"I'm sick of meeting new people." _I'm sick of strangers._

She could feel Corvo sigh; feel him look at her mother with him.

She could feel him agree.

They stood there until the last golden shine of the sun is gone. The glint of it shines off the drawn sketch of her mother's golden hair piece and Emily quietly wonders where it is now. Still lying on the gazebo? With the rest of the Empress?

Corvo quietly picks her off her feet and she doesn't protest. She doesn't argue that she's too old for it. Instead her arms wrap around his head and she watches her mother stare at them as Corvo leads them back to the Hound Pitts.

If she squints, she can imagine her mother wholly. Standing there, watching them go with that strange look, her arms crossed.

But then they turn a corner around the craggy building, and she's gone.

She _had been_ gone.

* * *

"Attention Dunwall Citizens, all river traffic is strictly prohibited—"

"I HATE this one."

Callista looks up sharply at the protest, looking a bit frightened at the outburst.

Emily drops her book on the bed and shoves her hands over her ears.

She doesn't understand why it's everywhere! She heard them at the Golden Cat too. But there it had been drowned out by other sounds, other people talking and the boards in her room had prevented her from hearing what the announcements were actually saying.

"Emily, just ignore it. It's over soon. I don't even hear them anymore, I just got used to it." Callista tries to reassure, moving from the desk where her writings were to sit on her bed.

Emily glares at her. "Well I'm not used to it."

Callista frowns, moving to touch her shoulder.

Emily jumps away from her, off the bed and rushes to the window. "Can't I go to Corvo's room instead? It's not so loud there!" She argues.

The announcement is already over.

Callista shakes her head. "Lord Corvo is sleeping. He needs rest Emily."

"I'm not going to wake him." She argues, angry that Callista thinks she would. She knows Corvo's tired.

"No, Emily."

She can feel a bubbling in her stomach at the words. What does she know? She wasn't going to bother him. Corvo _wanted_ her around anyway. He _told_ her to come whenever she wanted.

She turns and stares out to the dark windows of his boarded room and wonders if he is actually asleep.

She contemplates screaming out to him.

But as funny as it would be to see Callista distraught and Corvo come to get her despite her arguments, she knows that the fear in Corvo's eyes would not be worth it.

She has seen the way he looks at her when he comes back each day.

She knows that she is the first thing he looks for when he arrives.

"Come on, Lady Emily. We should ready you for bed."

She tries not to suggest that she sleep with Corvo instead.

It's hard not to.

Before… everything, she used to love sleeping. She'd rush to sleep to her mother's surprise, asking desperately to be tucked in, to be read to, so she would sleep quicker.

She liked dreaming.

She liked lying on her pillow and imagining places to visit, as if she were setting up her toys for a game. She could picture whole places, paint them in colors and close her eyes, drifting into them like they were real. She could control them, if she tried hard enough. If she let herself lull into her pillow, she could control the streets she walked down and the animals that followed her.

She didn't dream in colors anymore.

And she can't control these new dreams.

* * *

She hates him.

He stands in front of her, hand reaching for her and she hates him.

His face is as craggy as the cement wall with her mother's painted face. But he is painted in red, splashing his clothes with his black hand reaching out for her.

His eyes are blacker than the dark around them and she screams. She screams and hates him. HATES HIM!

She wants to see him ripped apart, to dig her tiny fingernails and rip his face apart like paper.

But he reached for her and she screams and her mother saves her.

Her mother always saves her.

She tries to run, to hug her mother and cry, to yell for Corvo (who is always missing) but she can't.

She just watches the man in red grab her mother like a doll and start to pull her apart.

Her mother looks like string, falling apart in this man's hands. And suddenly her wicked imagination turns her mother into lines, lines he cuts and tears and snaps and Emily screams.

He turns to look at her, his face breaking apart like glass and suddenly the lines in his hands are rats.

They swarm around his feet before racing toward her.

And she screams.

* * *

She races across the wood plank in the morning and Callista calls for her to be careful.

But she ignores the call and jumps through the window and barrels into the dark room.

Corvo is looking up at her before she even enters, tying his boots as he sits on the bed. He shakes his head at her, fingers rising, thumb twisting—

"I know, I know, don't run!" She smiles, bobbing toward him, hand leaning out to grab his signing hand. "I know but Callista said you were leaving already!"

He frowns at her, but doesn't pull her away. His rough hand engulfs hers, grasping it quietly and she wonders if the reassurance is for her or for him.

She taps his hand for his attention, raising her own fingers to sign words at him.

She tries to keep her eyes steady on his face instead of her hands as she does so, like he does with her.

'_Can I come?'_

Corvo shakes his head, fist curled.

She glares and her hands smack her sides. "Corvo! Please!"

It's more childish than she wanted.

He stands from the bed and doesn't look at her, still shaking his head.

"That's not fair!" She argues at his back, watching as he grabs his coat.

"I'm not going to run off, or get into any trouble!" She wants to stomp her feet to get him to look at her again, because maybe if he looks at her, he won't be able to leave her behind. But that seems even more foolish so she doesn't. "Corvo-"

'_Emily.'_

She stops immediately at the sight of her name.

His eyes are dark and his lips part, mouthing her name as his hand makes the motion. As if he would say it if she did not see it.

She swallows, knowing he isn't angry with her, but hating that he might be.

But Corvo just belts his holster on his waist and walks over to her, hands moving slowly. Gently.

'_I need you here.'_

She knows that. And in truth, she doesn't really want to go back out there either.

She just doesn't want to be alone.

She sees him to the boat and he hums quietly in her ear when he hugs her before he leaves.

* * *

She doesn't tell Corvo about her nightmares.

It would be mean, she thinks.

She already knows that Corvo doesn't sleep much. And he's always out there… fixing things.

He probably has his own nightmares.

But when she lays down for sleep that night, she wants nothing more than to have him there so she can tell him about her mother.

She can tell him about the man in the red. And how his eyes look white sometimes, and other times they bleed.

Maybe he can tell her that he killed him already. If he has.

She closes her eyes and tries to picture it. She tries to picture Corvo in his mask, tries to picture him jumping down from her favorite climbing spot in the Tower and getting the man right before her grabs her mother.

It doesn't work.

But the nightmare doesn't come either.

* * *

She wakes up at the Cat.

Sort of.

It looks broken and her little corner is open to the wide blue sky.

Emily stands on the wood planks, looking out at the shifting clouds.

The planks creak with her weight and her shoes clack as she begins following the long path of drifting wood in the sky. She can hear a strange noise somewhere and at first she thinks it's the stupid siren announcer.

But it's far away…and soft, ringing too… like a bell.

It's not cold, but she can feel the breeze of the open air as she moves.

It smells a little funny. Like the air in their home in Potterstead.

She leaves the corner behind, not bothering with the lamp there because it's a bright bluing sky. The planks seem to lead out to nowhere, but she follows them anyway.

Things in the clouds seem to move and she stops to look at them. Birds maybe?

A few times she tried to imagine them into birds, but the shadows dart between the clouds and fade away instead.

She keeps walking.

There's a flash like lightening, and everything dims to a softer color. There are pinks and greens before it settles into purples and the shifting colors remind her of the painting in her mother's hallway of the summer home, with bright sharp colors shining off a grand chandelier.

The shadows in the clouds move again, slow and steady, flying behind the vapor so she can't see it.

She blurs her eyes and tries to picture birds.

"They are whales." Someone whispers into her ear, soft and low.

She wakes up.


End file.
